Taken aback to be acknowledged so casually, when it’s the general practice of the Mistresses to behave as though any companions other than their own are virtual non-entities, the demure brunette blushes furiously and averts her gaze. In so doing, she inadvertently rattles the heavy chain fixed to her leather collar, drawing Isabelle’s attention to her.
“Sit still, Pet!” Isabelle jerks on the chain, yanking the brunette closer.
Though all companions are tethered, most are not treated so harshly. Pet’s alabaster skin is marked with purple bruises around her collar, indicative of her having been repeatedly pulled this way and that, the discomfort used as a form of correction for unwanted behaviors.
Coralie is unimpressed. According to the gossip mongers, Isabelle, upon nearing the end of her childbearing years and seeking to move further up in the ranks before the chance escaped her altogether, severed her permanent bond with her former—supposedly underperforming—companion. To achieve that, she tricked her sweet, trusting mate into committing a violation of coven law, thus resulting in her collar being stripped. Believing that she could harness much more potent seed in a younger specimen, she then claimed Pet at the tender age of eighteen, snapping her up before anyone else got a look in.
That was a little over six months ago.
Still no pregnancy.
Coralie—in her reproductive prime, thank the gods—can’t help but feel sorry for Pet. Companions are hardwired to procreate. Their sole purpose in life is to be bonded to a Mistress and fill her fertile womb, and Pet has the misfortune of being trapped with an older woman whose capacity to breed has already ebbed by.
It’s such a terrible waste, Coralie thinks, pressing a hand to her aching abdomen, the burning need to further her own bloodline growing ever more demanding. Pet cannot break her bond, and having engineered the expulsion of one companion already, neither can Isabelle. She dare not, lest her dubious actions should be called into question.
Looking around the table, Coralie observes the other Mistresses with their companions, watching how they offer food to their tethered mates at intervals. Most opt to hand-feed, this simple act strengthening the bond between them, but Pet’s dinner plate is conspicuously empty. She’s offered nothing. Not a single morsel.
Coralie catches her ogling some of the tabletop treats, her hunger evident. This time, Pet meets her gaze and doesn’t look away, fixing her bright eyes—one blue, one amber—on Coralie’s deep emeralds.
In a trait common to all bonded companions, Pet’s eyes are burning with such an intensity that they appear iridescent, shimmering continuously, and Coralie feels a small prick of jealousy. By any standards, Pet’s beautiful. She has a long, naturally wavy mane of thick, reddy-brown hair falling loose over her shoulders, her straight-cut bangs—much too long and in need of a trim—parted in the middle and draped around her eyes.
Delightfully petite, she’d be lucky to stretch on her tippy toes to reach much over five feet, and as suits her waif-like figure, her breasts are small and firm. Having no need to wear a bra, both unfettered mounds tent out her white button-up shirt, two dark pink circles hinting at the presence of her areolae beyond the thin cotton.
Feeling her own nipples harden in response to her scrutiny of Pet’s body, Coralie glides a hand from her neckline to her waist, pretending to smooth out creases in her bodice, giving one of her breasts a surreptitious squeeze along the way.
Pet’s jaw slackens, her eyes locked on Coralie’s ample bosom, shocked but thrilled by the display, which she can only imagine must be for her benefit.
“Cover yourself up!” Isabelle barks then, though not at Coralie and her protruding nipples, but at Pet. “How many times must I tell you?” She slaps her hand across Pet’s forehead, roughly smoothing out her bangs. “No-one ever knows which one to look at.” She conceals Pet’s unusual eyes behind her reddish locks. “It’s confusing.”
Obediently, Pet sits still, waiting until her Mistress is suitably distracted by another glass of specially selected wine before she tilts her head sideways, causing her bangs to part around her blue eye, allowing her to peer up at Coralie once more.
She’s rewarded with the warmest of smiles, making her heart flutter.
Picking up on Coralie’s interest, one of the Mistresses seated beside her tries to strike up a conversation about what type of companion she might be interested in claiming for herself now that her time has come.
“What’s your taste?” the nosey Mistress pries, expecting a standard answer emphasizing the length and girth of her preferred companion’s augmentation.
“My taste?” Coralie’s eyes drift back to Pet. “Young. Dark hair. Pretty eyes.”
Not used to such attention—or compliments of any kind, no matter how indirect—Pet’s cheeks burn. Self-conscious, she looks away, turning her head to obscure the flush of color, her movement accidentally pulling the chain taut and jolting Isabelle out of a half-sleep.
“Get down, Pet!” The drunken Mistress pushes on Pet’s head, shoving her to the floor.
Refusing to let that be an end to their flirtation—in fact, seeing this as an opportunity to further it—Coralie tucks her chair closer to the table and uncrosses her legs. While continuing to pick at her dinner, she slips her free hand beneath the table and onto her lap. Pinching her ankle-length skirt between her fingers, she tugs it up inch by inch, baring her legs by increments until she succeeds in getting the hem above her knees. Then, she waits.
The faint jangle of Pet’s chain signals the affection-starved companion edging forward, inching her way beneath the table, repositioning herself for a better look.
Indeed, in the dim, narrow passage littered with crumbs and dropped napkins, the long tablecloth concealing all sins, Pet cranes her neck, hoping for even the briefest glimpse of the forbidden treasure hiding at the top of Coralie’s long, stockinged legs.
As if sensing that silent pleading, Coralie shifts in her chair. Angling her hips forward, she grabs the bunched up hem in her fist and pulls it up her thighs, simultaneously parting her legs.
Pet can smell her arousal. Stifling a surprised whimper as her own arousal causes her priapus to stiffen, she looks down at her crotch, the thick appendage clearly visible, the bulbous head pinched between the waistband of her jeans and her stomach. It hurts.
Stuffing her hand inside her clothing, she makes a quick adjustment, forcing her rigid shaft down her pant leg instead, giving it more room and allowing it to grow to full hardness against her thigh. It’s still uncomfortable, but at least it’s not painful.
Eagerly returning to Coralie’s display, she watches as the unbonded Mistress strokes her inner thigh, dragging her blood red fingernails over the pale flesh above her stocking, moving toward a thick thatch of dark hair at her core.
Pet wriggles nearer. Lowering her head, she presses her lips to the toe of one of Coralie’s red patent leather stilettos, dropping a single kiss there, demonstrating her appreciation in the only way she can. Feeling brave in that moment, and intoxicated with lust, she wraps her hands around Coralie’s slender foot, planting kisses all over, working her way up from foot to ankle to calf and shin, not daring to venture above the knee. That would be too intimate. Too improper.
Closer now, Coralie’s scent is overwhelming. Her pubic hair is glistening with moisture, and Pet’s breath catches in her throat as Coralie trails an adventurous hand toward that black triangle, her pink concealed by the hair surrounding it.
Overcome with want, she shuffles between Coralie’s legs. Her shoulders nudge Coralie’s knees, forcing her to spread open wider, and Coralie struggles not to give them both away, her excitement heightened by Pet’s unexpected enthusiasm.
Controlling her breathing as best she can, Coralie slips her pale fingers into her tangle of damp curls and glides downward. When she reaches her labia, she uses her fore and ring fingers to spread her lips, then dips her middle finger into her heat.
For almost a full minute, she probes her slit
, languidly fucking herself, making sure her finger is slick with her honey before she withdraws and extends her hand, offering the sticky digit to Pet’s mouth.
At great risk of spontaneously ejaculating, Pet closes her eyes, purrs, and breathes in Coralie’s unique perfume. Tableside, Coralie feels Pet’s warm breath on her hand. She waits to feel the hot lash of an eager tongue, but as Pet’s lips part and the very tip of her tongue makes contact, the chain clanks, alerting Isabelle to her movements.
“What’re you doing down there?!” Isabelle wrenches Pet back into place.
As the thick leather collar crushes Pet’s throat, Pet yelps, her cry of pain met with an open-palm smack to the back of her head.
“Is that really necessary?” Coralie targets the inebriated Mistress with a stern glare. “She didn’t do anything wrong.”
Isabelle reaches for her glass, glancing at the empty space beside Coralie. “Where’s your companion? Oh, that’s right: you don’t have one.” She downs half the glass in one gulp. “Perhaps you should reserve your criticism for a topic you actually know something about. Fucking, maybe. That is what you do best, isn’t it?”
One of the other Mistresses, having briefly witnessed Coralie’s antics in the coterie before her own ascension to the High Council, snorts and laughs. “Is there any playmate you haven’t sampled? I’ve seen you go through six in one night!”
“There’s no harm in enjoying oneself.” Coralie smiles wickedly, winking at Pet when Isabelle isn’t looking.
“Maybe so, but the time for such dalliances has now passed,” the Mistress reminds her. “Do you think it possible for you to be content with just one companion? Given your history, a monogamous relationship might prove to be somewhat … tame.”
“I don’t envisage that being a problem.” Coralie’s gaze drifts back to Pet, finding her head angled forward, her bangs flopped in front of her face, concealing her flaming cheeks.
“Well, you’ll get to hook your claws into one after dinner.” The unaware Mistress digs at her food, oblivious to the flirtation going on in front of her. “Mistress Diana has a whole swathe of eligible playmates for you to pick through, but perhaps you already have a favorite from your time spent in the coterie?”
“I can’t say that I do.” Coralie keeps her eyes on Pet. “Not anymore.”
CHAPTER TWO
Coralie lounges on a purple velvet chaise in the drawing room, sipping champagne. She’s been told to sit back and enjoy the view as a string of potential companions are paraded in front of her for her choosing, but the exhibition is becoming repetitive. First five, then ten, then fifteen. Some are playmates familiar to her from the coterie, while others are fresh faces, virginal and recently initiated into the coven.
As one Mistress leads another handful of rejects out into the hall, banishing them back to their domain in the coterie, Mistress Diana ushers in five more topless prospects, instructing them to form a neat line in front of Coralie. Of this batch, she recognizes only one: Fawn.
Though Fawn attempts to make eye contact, Coralie remains aloof, giving no indication as to their acquaintance, nor that she has any intention of choosing Fawn to be her companion. And so the selection process continues.
“Bare,” Diana points a riding crop at the prospect on the far left.
Without protest, the tall blonde unbuckles her black jeans, tugs them off her hips, and exposes her flaccid priapus. In its current state, it resembles a tiny grub worm.
A few seconds later, Diana issues the same command to the next in line. This prospect’s cheeks burn as she pulls down her pants, revealing her semi-erect augmentation. It fattens more under the attention of Coralie’s eyes, but doesn’t reach much more than five inches.
The third prospect, Fawn, has more to be proud of—as Coralie well knows. When she unzips herself, her bulky, rock hard priapus flops out, bobbing in front of her, but Coralie simply signals to Diana to move on down the line, having numbers four and five bare themselves simultaneously, her casual disinterest inflaming a quietly seething anger behind Fawn’s eyes.
Oblivious to that, and thoroughly bored by these proceedings, Coralie’s mind drifts and she thinks about Pet. None of the prospects she’s seen thus far have sparked even half as much desire in her, and as the evening drags on, the only thing growing is her ennui.
“Could we take a break?” She smothers a yawn, preventing Diana from wrangling together yet another set of hopefuls. “This is getting dreadfully tiresome.”
“Do you not like any of them?” Diana sighs, planting a hand on her hip. “I don’t know what more you expect. Tall, short, blonde, brunette—you’ve seen it all.”
“And they’re all fine enough.” Coralie gets up. “But I have to visit the little girls’ room.”
Excusing herself to the other Mistresses, she slinks out of the drawing room, stumbling upon a sour-looking Pet sitting cross-legged on the hallway floor, tethered to a railing outside the washroom. Slouched over, her elbows are propped on her knees, her chin cupped in the heels of her palms. She’s exuding misery.
“Pet?” Coralie approaches her. “What’s wrong?”
Caught unawares, Pet bolts upright, trying to compose herself. The hallway is lined with chairs on which the playmates and new initiates were told to sit and wait before being led five or six at a time into the drawing room, and Pet’s spent a significant amount of time feeling sorry for herself, her heart sinking minute by minute.
“Why are you sad?” Coralie settles into the chair nearest to her.
Incapable of lying to a Mistress—any Mistress—Pet tips her head in the direction of the drawing room, then quickly turns away, painfully aware that she has no right to express any feelings on the matter.
“Are you jealous?” Coralie infers from her behavior. “You think I’m in there pawing on a roomful of potential mates, drooling over their delicious bodies?”
Under the guise of fixing an imperfection with one of her stockings, she uncrosses her legs, flicks her skirt over her knees, and bends forward, trailing a pale, slender hand from her ankle to her thigh, grazing her fingernails along the silky fabric.
“The truth is,” she goes on, “I’ve been very much distracted.”
Pet is captivated. She follows the path of Coralie’s hand, watching it linger on her upper thigh as she fingers the lacy elastic at the top of the stocking, stroking her palm over the smooth, pale skin above.
“You see, sweet Pet”—Coralie crosses her legs again, making no attempt to cover back up, leaving herself indecently exposed—“I can’t stop thinking about this adorable young thing I met at dinner.” She grips Pet’s cheeks, demanding her whole and undivided attention. “She’s perfect in every way, and she excites me beyond all good reason, even though she belongs to another.” Her eyes drop to Pet’s lap, pleased to find her fully erect.
Uneasy with such close contact in such an open place, and terrified that Mistress Isabelle will return from the washroom to catch her aroused and flirting with someone else, Pet wrests her head away from Coralie’s clutches, turning her face to hide her shame.
“Has she been gone long?” Coralie interprets her concern.
Pet nods.
Without further word, Coralie rises from the chair and enters the washroom to investigate, coming upon Isabelle passed out on the marble floor. She’s curled around the base of the toilet, vomit everywhere, her skirt scrunched up and her knickers bared, a full bush of graying pubic hair peeking out around the edges.
Disgusted, Coralie kicks the old drunkard’s shin with the pointed toe of her stiletto, testing to see how likely she is to be roused. The answer? Not very. Isabelle grunts and snorts, but remains unconscious.
Swinging open the washroom door, Coralie beckons to an obediently waiting Pet. “Come, Pet.” She unclips the companion from her chain. “Come see your Mistress.”
Pet stands, but takes no step forward. She brings a hand to her neck, looping a finger through the brass ring where her chain is
always fixed, her eyes pinned to the links of heavy steel now dangling limply from the railing.
Coralie hooks a finger under her chin, tilting her head up. “Are you going to run away from me, Pet?”
Pet locks onto Coralie’s emerald eyes, giving her head a small shake.
“Then what do we need it for?” Coralie beams. “Come.” She takes Pet by the hand and leads her into the washroom, directing her to the corner in which Isabelle is slumped.
“Here she is in all her glory.” Coralie folds her arms, glaring disdainfully at the pitiful, graceless, aging witch.
Mortified on her Mistress’s behalf, Pet lowers her gaze, not wanting to look. Tears prick her eyes, but she holds them back, gasping when Coralie’s warm hands reach for her again, this time lightly cupping her face.
“I’m sorry she hurt you at dinner.” Coralie thumbs the young companion’s peachy cheeks. “That was my fault.”
Pet shakes her head, halfheartedly shrugging one shoulder: It’s no big deal. She expects Coralie to withdraw, and instinctively flinches when Coralie’s hands slip down to her bruised neck.
“Let me,” Coralie insists, reaching out to her again. “Let me kiss it better.”
Torn between obedience to this new, dangerously alluring Mistress and loyalty to the pathetic scrap of a woman she’s bonded to, Pet closes her eyes and relents, allowing Coralie to angle her head back, baring her neck.
“Good, Pet,” Coralie whispers, bringing her soft mouth to the damaged skin on Pet’s throat, above her collar. “I’ll make it all go away.”
Pet mewls as Coralie’s hands slide around her neck, holding her in place, adorning her with kisses, and her skin tingles where Coralie’s lips grace her, the pain dulled. The pain … gone. Pet opens her eyes and peeks at her reflection in the washroom mirror, finding the skin around her collar pale and flawless, the bruises vanished.
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